


Two Blind Men Steering A Ship

by DumpsterDiving101



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Escape, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Steve Rogers, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prisoner of War, Recovery, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DumpsterDiving101/pseuds/DumpsterDiving101
Summary: The Winter Soldier does not have memories. The Winter Soldier is a good weapon. The Winter Soldier doesn't need to be anything else.The Winter Soldier is annoyed at the blond boy who's pushed into his cell. The Winter Soldier is not supposed to feel 'annoyance', but he does. Ever since he met the blond boy, he's started feeling so many things, and he knows he should go and get wiped, he knows, but he just... can't.He remembers the boy. But the boy doesn't remember anything at all.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 17
Kudos: 99
Collections: Stucky Secret Santa 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhenInDoubtSleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenInDoubtSleep/gifts).



> Hi everybody! This is my Stucky Secret Santa 2019 fic for WhenInDoubtSleep, who requested identity porn, recovery, and strong friendships. I hope you enjoy! I really struggled trying to figure out an idea for an identity porn fic, and went through a lot of indecision, but I landed on this fic and I think it's pretty neat :)
> 
> This fic contains various Hydra Trash Party themes, though there is no explicit violence or non-con. A few scenes discuss mild gore, but it's very mild. 
> 
> This story is nearly completed, and there will be frequent updates over the next few days until it's done. Enjoy!

It wasn’t the most boring execution Winter’d ever been to, but it was up there. Whoever the prisoner was, he wasn’t important, a fact that was made clear by the total lack of fanfare. With important prisoners, the executions were more exotic affairs, with enough style and pizzazz to give them an artful flair. 

Nothing about this execution was artful. The prisoner was unimpressive, both in looks and wits. He was a tiny man, perhaps in his twenties though he could pass for younger, with a floof of blond hair stuck up in every direction. He looked like a kid who’d been rolled out of bed at 4am on a Saturday morning, his expression glossy and his white briefs rumpled. Behind him, Agent Sutton had a gun against the back of his head, and yet all he could do was smack his lips and squint against the brightness. 

There were a few other agents in the room, and none of them seemed comfortable with the situation. In Winter’s eyes, they should just shoot the boy and get over it. Hydra had a world to bring to order, and order didn’t come through bureaucracy. Order came through blood spilled on white tiles; order came through pain. 

The agents stopped talking when the doors were pushed open and the new Director Pierce strode in, his steps quick, confident, dismissive. “Sutton! I was in the middle of something, what was the meaning of this?” 

In answer, Sutton gestured stiffly with his gun. “We need director approval to undergo any execution, sir. That was one of Strucker’s rules, sir.”

On the ground, the boy started coughing, harsh, wet coughs. Winter very carefully did not roll his eyes; at this point, killing the boy would be an act of mercy. 

Pierce waited for the boy to quit, then waved at Sutton to put his gun away. “Do I like like Strucker?”

Sutton paled. “No, sir.”

Pierce sighed, rubbing his temples. He was a rather aesthetically-pleasing man, tall and lean with honey-brown hair and no wrinkles to speak of. It was his fourth week on the job, and Winter suspected the wrinkles would start appearing soon. The directors always aged so quickly after their promotions. 

“Sutton was a good Director, and he got Hydra to where it was today. But he killed without consideration. Tell me, Agent, are we killing this prisoner because he had dangerous information? Because he had caused our agency great turmoil?”

“N-no sir.”

“And was he completely useless now? So deteriorated he can’t even push a mail cart?”

“No sir.”

Pierce patted him on the shoulder. “Then for God’s sake, find a use for him.”

On the floor, the boy coughed again, and then vomited. The vomit was a rather unnatural shade of blue.

“That’s from the cryofreeze liquid, sir,” one of the technicians piped up. “It’s a short term side effect.”

Pierce nodded, looking at the vomit with disinterest. “Right. How long was he in cryo, again?”

The technician cleared his throat. “Thirty-two years, sir.”

That seemed to impress Pierce, at least. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Not bad. Soldier, come with me, I have a mission for you.”

Automatically, Winter fell in line with Pierce, following him out and glaring at any agent who dared try to make eye contact with him. He did not look back at the boy on the floor. He didn’t even think about him. 

  
  


—————————————

  
  


_ He awoke to the sound of a floorboard creaking. Groaning, he rolled over and propped himself up. Across the room was a small blond guy wearing a cream colored shirt tucked into khakis. The boy looked over, giving him a guilty smile. “Hey, my socks are all dirty. Can I borrow a pair?” _

_ Bucky did not point out how clearly Steve was planning on stealing the socks without asking first, he just smiled lazily and shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you need.” _

_ Steve gave him a sharp little grin before grabbing a pair and closing the drawer. “I’ll give them back,” he promised, but Bucky wasn’t worried. Steve was never one for taking without giving back. _

  
  


————————————

  
  


It turned out that the mission Pierce had in mind was in Vietnam. There was another war going on, it seemed, and certain people had certain ideas to end the war too early. It was Winter’s job to make sure they didn’t get the chance. 

He ended up overseas for three weeks before his last target was eliminated, and he was shipped home. He went through the normal debriefing process before being sent back to the mission prep room. He purposefully did not look at the chair, and luckily, it wasn’t used. All he had to do was remain still as he was undressed, his gear being carefully removed and placed aside to be cleaned. He was changed into his daytime tac-gear, which was less extensive but made to be no less intimidating. Finally, he was released to return to his cell, where he would remain until he was needed. 

He marched to his cell, memory foggy and numb as it always was after receiving his injections, and it wasn’t until he was halfway down the hall that he noticed a guard sleeping on the floor outside of his cell. From inside the cell, something small flew out, landing on the guard’s vest. As Winter came closer, he saw another something fly out, nailing the guard in the face and sticking. It was a round little white object… a spitball? 

The guard snored noisily as Winter turned, looking into  _ his  _ cell, which was specially set up for  _ him,  _ and no one else. Inside was not calming, empty space, but the blond boy from before the mission, leaning against the metal bars on his knees with a vaguely panicked expression. “Oh, it’s you.”

In his hand he held a straw from one of Winter’s nutritional shakes. He held it like a weapon, and for a moment, Winter considered using it as one. 

“<Why are you in my cell>.”

The boy startled, eyes going wide at the German, but he replied in turn, “<The genius over there put me here>,” he said, pointing to the idiot guard who was still asleep. “<Like, a week ago. You weren’t here. Are you sure this was your cell?>”

“<The Asset isn’t capable of error>,” Winter recited sharply. He kicked the agent in the side, waiting for him to shake awake before glowering, “<This cell was not for prisoner containment.>”

After only a little more  _ persuasion _ , the guard unlocked the door and took the boy away. The boy looked over his shoulder at Winter, calling out “<Have a good day, pretty man!>” and getting hit in the head for his efforts. Winter stared, and if he’d been allowed expression, he would’ve shaked his head. He didn’t see why Hydra bothered keeping that boy around, but it wasn’t his place to question. 

He closed the heavy metal door behind him, relaxing at the tell-tale buzz of the electronic lock, only to tense up again when he saw the state of his cell. Everything had been riffled through, and one of his manuals had pages torn out of it— likely the paper used for the boy’s spitwads.  _ Unacceptable.  _

__

————————————

  
  


Winter saw the boy occasionally around the base. One time, he found him cleaning up blood in a hallway, a bored-looking guard watching over him. Another time, he was in a lab getting vials of blood drawn. Another time after that, he was crawling under a table, doing something to make Gibbs chuckle and grin, shifting to lean back in his chair. The boy didn’t seem to have any specific role to play, and yet they still wouldn’t get rid of him. The lack of efficiency made the Soldier’s skin itch. 

And then one day, Winter returned to his cell after a ‘field trip’ with Pierce (in which he was brought along to a meeting to glare threateningly at some rebellious soldiers) only to find the boy in his cell once again. He glowered at the guard outside the door, who was awake and standing at attention for once. “My cell,” he growled. 

“There was limited cell space, I have been ordered to bring Prisoner 524 here on higher orders,” the guard responded, avoiding looking into Winter’s eyes. “Pierce said the Asset will not mind because the Asset did not feel emotions.”

Internally, Winter hissed. He wasn’t feeling  _ emotions.  _ “The Asset’s effectiveness was maintained through protocol and routine.” Then he turned towards the cell, and allowed to guard to lock him in. 

The blond boy  _ (Prisoner 524)  _ was sitting in the corner of his cot against the wall, and watched with vague intrigue as Winter entered. 

“<Have you destroyed anymore of my things?>” Winter asked, checking for anything out of place. Mostly, the cell seemed put together, though he noticed a few things that’d been shifted. 

“<Your things are crap, there’s nothing good enough to destroy.>”

Winter felt more of that bitterness, but forced it down. The boy was lying; Winter had his manuals, which he read to better understand things such as the inner-anatomy of car engines; his cot, with its medical grade sheets and woolen blanket; and his weapons, all dismantled and cleaned. He also had a sink and toilet, for hygiene purposes, and a trash can that was cleaned out regularly. His cell was nicer than any other he could remember-- though Winter wasn't known for having a strong recollection. 

“<Stay out of my way,>” Winter commanded, deciding not to question higher command. If he would be forced to room with this…  _ thing…  _ he would accept it, but he wouldn’t let it affect his mode of operations. And right now, the boy was sitting on his cot, disturbing the air, his heart beating audibly, and Winter could only control one of those things. “<This was not your place.>”

He lifted the boy off of his bed, resulting in an outraged “Hey!” and tossed him in the corner like a cat. There was a loud noise as the boy made impact with the wall, but Winter wasn’t concerned. “<That can be your place,>” the Soldier decided. Then the Soldier removed it’s boots, placing them in their exact spot at the end of his bed, and climbed under the covers. He got into the optimal rest position and closed his eyes, already training his breath to even out. He would be asleep within three minutes. He would be asleep within three minutes. He would—

He could still hear the boy’s heart beating, faster now, from adrenaline. He could hear a quiet whimper, and some noise as the boy tried to also get into optimal rest position in his corner. His breathes were soft puffs, the rise and fall of his chest audible. 

It would be a long night.

  
  


————————————

  
  


Winter became used to sharing his space with the boy  _ (Prisoner 524).  _ He was small enough that he didn’t take up too much space, even if his heartbeat echoed in Winter’s ears, his breath soft and constant. He was given a book of codes to crack— likely to keep him busy, instead of out of any necessity. But he worked on the codes diligently, doing well enough that he likely either had experience or some sort of superhuman enhancements. Winter wouldn’t be surprised if the latter was true, since the boy did survive cryo, but he didn’t understand why anyone would choose such a small creature to enhance. 

Meanwhile, Winter went about his duties, patrolling, acting as a bodyguard, and intimidating divisions that were acting up. There were a lot of small scale revolts going on within Hydra’s walls, and at one point Winter was sent on a mission to eliminate an entire group of scientists who’d gone rogue. He was told to keep one alive, so the story could be spread. The dead scientists were to be made an example; Pierce may not believe in unnecessary loss of life, but he did have lax beliefs in regards to when loss of life  _ was _ necessary, and this just so happened to be one of those times. 

At the end of every day, the Soldier went back to his cell, where the boy was usually waiting. He had tasks to perform during the day too, but he wasn’t permitted to wander unguarded. 

Winter didn’t like him, but he did get used to his presence. It was fine; as long as they didn’t have to interact, the boy couldn’t annoy him. 

Until one morning, when they were forced to interact. 

It was still early when the transceiver embedded in the cell wall buzzed, and started printing a message. The boy looked up at it, eyes wide, but the Soldier got up and retrieved the message before the boy could get any ideas. It was for him, after all. 

  
  


**MESSAGE TRANSCEIVER: 05755**

**BRING PRISONER 524 TO LAB 207 AT 0700. REMAIN UNTIL TESTING was COMPLETE THEN RETURN 524 TO CELL. FORCE PERMITTED.**

  
  


Winter gritted his teeth. He was the Asset, the Fist of Hydra, not a… a  _ babysitter.  _

Still, he followed his orders. He was unaware as to the boy’s purpose in Lab 207, but he made sure the boy was prepared in time for their departure at 0655, much to the boy’s annoyance. Then he marched the boy to the lab, handing him off to the technicians before taking sentry in the corner of the room with the best sightlines. 

He didn’t pay much attention to the procedures, but at least a portion of his mind remained aware of what was happening at any given time. The boy was strapped down to a lab table and hooked up to a machine that measured things like blood pressure and heart rate, and then repeatedly shocked. He was injected with a substance that made his body go limp, and then prodded in various places, his reflexes being tested. When enough pressure was put on the inside of his wrist, for example, his hand automatically opened. More things happened after that— his teeth being checked, his sweat glands tested, his eyes dilated— before the scientists decided they were done for the day, and unstrapped him. Winter watched boredly as the boy fell to his knees, too weak to get back up. 

“Before returning him to his cell, hose him down,” one of the technicians said. 

That wasn’t right— the Soldier got hosed down, he didn’t hose other people down. But perhaps this was part of his new training. 

He waited until the boy was clothed again and able to walk, then lead him to the familiar stall, where he made him strip again. The boy glared viciously at him, but as soon as the Soldier applied force to an especially painful pressure point, the boy was quick to get with the program. He stripped, then stood in the center of the room with his arms spread, grimacing as the blast of water hit his body. It was on the lowest pressure setting, but it still made him step back a bit to regain his balance. 

“It’s good we’re here,” Winter said amusedly. “You stink.”

The prisoner glared even more harshly. “Fuck you.”

In response, the Soldier sprayed him in the face, and then laughed when the boy fell over. 

  
  


—————————

The Soldier did not mind the boy’s presence, because the Soldier did not have the capacity to feel emotions. 

(The Soldier minded very much).

His brain hurt whenever the boy was around. Some things hurt less than others. For example, the sound of the boy’s breathing, his heart rate, was not nearly as annoying as it once was. But every once in a while, the Soldier would be cleaning his weapons and look over to find the boy half-kneeling on the ground, the book of code in front of him, his pencil in his mouth, and it would physically hurt. The Soldier would be forced to abandon his weapon and return to his cot until the burning in his skull died down.

Winter also continued to dream, and oftentimes saw the boy in his head even as he slept. He saw the boy tying his shoelaces; saw the boy standing by the window; saw the boy laughing with a girl. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand his minds fascination with this creature, didn’t understand how his mind kept coming up with these imaginary places. There was an apartment where many of the dreams took place, and during his waking hours, the Asset searched his mind for any recollection of an assassination taking place there. The dreams were so detailed that surely, the apartment was real— maybe an old handler lived there? But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember. All he remembered was the boy, drawing and eating and lounging and smiling. 

The boy didn’t smile much in real life. Mostly, he scowled, making faces at guards or frowning at his work. He had gone through an impressive number of code books, Winter thought. They had been sharing a cell for a great number of months. 

One day, the Soldier was told to bring the Prisoner up to one of the top floors of the compound, where one of the higher-ups had his office. The prisoner went into the office while Winter waited outside, listening curiously to their talking, the increased heart-rates, the moans. The Prisoner appeared to be in pain. The Asset didn’t move from his spot. 

When the commander was done, he lead the prisoner back out of the office, giving Winter a sly grin. “All in a day's work,” he said, looking inordinately pleased with himself. 

The prisoner was scowling very intensely, his eyebrows drawn up tight, making deep creases appear inbetween them. On instinct, the Asset said “Ease up, or your face’ll stick like that.” The prisoner gave him a weird look, but stopped scowling. 

The commander was no longer smiling. 

The next day, the Asset was called in to do an assessment. He was made to do an assessment periodically, to test his abilities and mental facilities. The abilities test went by quickly, and then he was strapped into the chair and asked questions by a pretty looking blonde woman with a clipboard. “How do you feel?” She asked. 

“Functional.”

“Are you happy to be doing this test today?” She asked. It’s a trick question. 

“The Asset didn't feel a range of emotions.” 

She scribbled something down, then asked “Who was your allegiance to?”

“Hydra.” Easy. 

“What was your purpose?” 

“To serve Hydra in whatever ways my masters see fit.” 

“Do you ever dream?”

The Asset was… unprepared for that question. He thought of the apartment, thought of the Prisoner 524 sitting on a window ledge, eyes closed as he breathed in the city air. “No.”

He lied. He shouldn’t, but he did. He knew what happened when he didn’t pass this test. 

And yet, despite his answers, at the end of the session the pretty looking blonde woman gave him his mouth guard to bite down on, and lowered his chair back. He screamed as electricity shot through him—  _ failed, you failed _ — and could hardly think when it’s over. The pretty looking blonde woman was still there, though the Asset no longer thought she was very pretty. 

“Ready to comply.”

As he marched back to his cell, he decided to be more careful. The session that day was likely a result of him showing too much personality the day prior. He had to learn to hold back. He still didn’t know why he said anything at all, he just saw the prisoner’s face and it just felt… right. 

He would be better. He did not want to go back to the chair. 

(The chair didn’t work anymore.)

———————————

  
  


Sometimes, when the Prisoner slept, the Asset didn’t. 

Sometimes, when the Prisoner slept, the Asset watched. 

The Prisoner was small, frail. He slept in a ball like a cat, his back pressed into the corner. When he was awake, he sometimes eyed the Soldier with weariness, but in sleep he couldn’t do that, because his eyes were closed. He didn’t seem very restful. 

The Asset knew he should sleep. It’s just… the dreams kept happening. He knew he wasn’t supposed to dream, that he should’ve reported it a long time ago, admitted that the chair wasn’t strong enough to wipe him bare, admitted that he kept feeling things, but he just… couldn’t. He didn’t want to. 

(He wondered if that made him a traitor.)

He felt guilty, but he had actually started enjoying the dreams. In them, he saw the prisoner a thousand times, a thousand different emotions playing on his face. Winter learnt about emotions he didn’t even know existed, like ecstatic joy, rebellious pride, burning passion, just from looking at the boy’s face. Sometimes, the boy talked to him in his dreams. He called him names like ‘jerk’ and ‘Buck’, told him to shove off, buy more bread,  _ take care of yourself, alright?  _ And the Asset just. Didn’t. Understand. 

He didn’t know where the dreams came from, didn’t think his mind was big enough to hold so many worlds, and yet it was. And… he was starting to think those worlds aren’t made up. Maybe, just maybe… at one point, they were real. 

He needed evidence to support this conclusion, however, so one day, he lowered himself to the ground across from the boy. The boy immediately curled tighter around his book of codes, glancing up and then back to his work quickly, purposefully ignoring the Soldier. Unacceptable. 

“Do you have memories?” The Soldier asked. It’s unprompted, too curious, but there were no guards around, no cameras to see. 

The prisoner looked uncomfortable, guarded. Winter saw that expression was his dreams sometimes, too. “No,” he said curtly. 

For some reason, that made Winter’s chest hurt. “Are you sure?”

The boy sighed, and lowered his work, accepting that this wasn’t a conversation he could get out of. “I have some memories, but they don’t go far back. I remember waking up from cryo, and being sick. I remember you were in the room after that, with your gun, and there was that guy Pierce. And I remember stuff after that, but… my memories don’t go far back. I don’t think I’ve been alive very long.”

False. It must be. If what the Prisoner (524) said was true, then he was only a year old. That couldn’t be correct. 

“Do you remember electricity?” The Asset asked, because maybe the boy was wiped like him. 

The boy set his work aside and curled up in a ball. Maybe he also got the burning in his skull, and needed to lie down. 

The Asset let him be.

  
  


————————————

  
  


It was nighttime, and it was winter. The hall their cell was in was very far back in the compound, and it didn't have very good air circulation. 

The Asset could hear the boy shiver. It was very, very loud to his enhanced ears; the shudder of his weak muscles, the rapid click of his teeth, the harsh, fast pace of his breath. The prisoner was very cold. 

The prisoner would survive. 

The prisoner was very cold. 

The prisoner had no blankets on the floor. 

(The prisoner would survive). 

“<Come here,>” the Asset snapped. He was angry. He was angry that the prisoner was cold. 

The prisoner stood, following the order on instincts, but when he got to the cot he bit “<Don’t touch me!>” because he hated the Asset. The Asset didn't care; he grabbed the prisoner’s wrist and flipped him onto the cot, catching him between his own body and the brick wall. He burrowed the boy under the blankets, ignoring his fighting and shoving his face against his sheets until his panting died down, and he no longer shivered. 

The Asset no longer felt angry. He felt soft. The boy’s skin was smooth, unlike paper or metal. His breathing evened out, returning to its familiar, healthy pace. The Asset realized, he liked this, liked the fact that he found a problem and fixed it. But even more than that, he liked that he helped the boy. The boy, who was nearly a foot shorter than him, and at least half his weight. The boy, who had no one to take care of him. 

The boy should have had someone to take care of him. After all, despite his size, his knowledge, his speech, the boy only had one year of memories. 

  
  


—————————

  
  


That night, Winter woke up in a cold sweat. The boy was still in bed with him, still asleep, but everything had changed. 

Steve. The boy’s name was Steve. 

And, at one point in history, the Asset knew him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

Winter was assigned a mission by Alexander Pierce, who was not as young as he used to be. He had been in power for a few years, perhaps, and people no longer talked about the old director. 

Winter was assigned a mission by Alexander Pierce, who said “These dignitaries are enemies of Hydra. They want to do harm to us, and throw the world into chaos. You must not let them.”

So the Soldier was brought to the armory, where he was dressed, his uniform snapped into place and weapons strapped to his body. His mind was blank but for the mission. He had a mission. 

(The night before, he dreamed of Steve eating ice cream). 

He had a mission. 

His team took him to Northern Germany, where he spent five days tracking his targets. Afterwards, he returned to the nearest safehouse, where about half of his team was located. The blond prisoner was there (Prisoner 524, Steve), and the Asset didn't know why. The prisoner wasn’t wearing pants, and his cheeks were flushed pink. The rest of the strike team looks uncharacteristically pleased with themselves, and the prisoner seems to be begging with his eyes.

His team removed his uniform, piece by piece, telling the prisoner how to undo each specific clasp, making him memorized the order. The Asset didn't understand, but there was much the Asset didn't understand. The Asset was very dumb. The Asset hadn’t slept in five days. 

The next mission the Asset went on, he returned to the nearest safehouse and found only Steve there. Hydra was understaffed, and his team was busy elsewhere. Steve struggled to get Winter’s gear off, and once he did, the Asset collapsed on top of him. Steve gasped, and it sets off the same part of Winter’s head that was set off when Steve was cold that one night. 

“Sorry,” the Asset muttered, rolling off of the smaller boy. “Sorry.”

“You’re okay,” The prisoner muttered, sitting up. “I’ll get you food.”

The prisoner stood, and the Asset saw an ankle monitor strapped to his leg. “It’s pretty,” he said, and when Steve saw what he was talking about he explained:

“It’s a tracking device. So if I try to leave, they can kill me remotely.”

It was smart, the Asset thought. He didn't feel any emotions.

(He didn't want Steve to die.)

They fell into silence, which was their usual mode of operation. The Asset ate and Steve watched, hunched over himself like a sad bag of potatoes. 

The Asset pushed half of his food to Steve. Steve looked like a slightly-less-sad sack of potatoes. 

“Do you remember anything?” Steve asked, and it took everything in him for the Asset not to immediately say No. Because, even though that was the right answer, it was not the true one, and the Asset knew Steve wanted the truth. 

“Yes,” he said. “Too much.”

The prisoner seemed to find this interesting. “Like what?”

You. 

“There was life outside of Hydra,” the Asset said instead. “Places without walls.”

Steve didn't seem to know whether or not to believe him. Winter didn't blame him; here, in this tiny bunker, it seemed too good to be true. 

(There was only one bed in the safe-house, and Winter made Steve share it with him, even though it wasn’t cold. He felt soft for Steve. He thought this was empathy, and it scared and excited him in equal measure. And, after darkness had fallen and their breathes had evened out, the Asset wrapped its arms around the boy, pulling him close. The prisoner did not resist, and it made something dangerous and excited jump around in Winter’s chest.)

  
  


———————————

  
  


It was afternoon, and they were back at the base in their cell when the prisoner asked “What’s your real name?”

Query unclear. “The Winter Soldier.”

The prisoner made a face. “No, you mook. Your real name. Like, your person name.”

“I’m not a person.”

“But you used to be,” the prisoner pointed out. “Otherwise why did you once live somewhere without walls?”

The prisoner had a good point. Winter was annoyed. “Well, you don’t know your real name either.”

The prisoner jutted out his chin. “Yes I do. It’s 524.”

The Asset scoffed. “No it’s not. It’s Steve; Steven Grant Rogers.”

The prisoner’s face fell.

  
  


———————————

  
  


After that, the prisoner (Steven Grant Rogers) asked the Asset a lot of questions it didn't want to answer. The Asset got in bed and faced the brick wall, his head aching immensely like it did whenever he thought too hard. The Asset was very dumb; the Asset was designed to follow orders, react, not enact. The Asset was very dumb. The Asset was very, very dumb. 

He fell asleep, and didn't wake up until over a day had passed, because he was really, very, incredibly dumb. He was punished for being dumb. He was sent to the chair. 

(The chair didn’t work anymore.)

When he got back, the prisoner (StevenGrant—) was there, and looked guilty. The Asset didn't feel guilt. The Asset didn't feel anything. 

“What can you tell me?” The prisoner asked. 

“Nothing,” the Asset answered. It’s not even that much of a lie— he had nothing to say, no memories in his head. He was the Asset. He was obedient to Hydra. He didn't need to be anything more. 

_ In his dreams, he was at a bar, and Steve was there. They arrived together, but had moved apart, and Bucky was very, very bitter about that. Steve was talking to another guy, someone tall and slim, with just enough muscles in the right places for Bucky to hate him. He smiled leeringly at Steve, and Steve laughed at something he said, bending over like it hurt to feel so good. Bucky hated the man, hated him like he did something irredeemable, hated him with fire and smoke, hated him in his gut, thick beneath his skin.  _

_ The dream shifted. They were at another bar— no, a dancehall— and Bucky was dancing with a girl. She was very pretty, and her skirt was a little too short, a fact that Bucky noticed with analytical glee. Over her shoulder, Bucky saw Steve, sitting alone at a booth and doodling on a napkin. He apologized to the girl and made his way over, clapping Steve heavily on the shoulder. “Hey! Why aren’t you dancing?” _

_ Steve brushed the bangs out of his face, giving Bucky a blank look. “I’m no good, you know that—” _

_ “You’ll get good,” Bucky swore, hauling him to his feet. “Here, just let me—” _

_ He tried to make Steve sway to the music, but Steve was stiff, uninterested. “C’mon, Stevie, just move—” _

_ “Give it a rest, will you?” Steve said, and he sounds upset, like he may actually be angry. “Just stop, I don’t want to dance and I especially don’t want to dance with you.” _

_ It hurt him, in the chest, and suddenly the music too loud. Bucky could hear Steve’s heartbeat in his chest, too fast, irritable. “Stevie—” _

_ “I said give it a rest,” Steve repeated, and slapped his hands away, removing all contact. He turned away, breathing raggedly. “God. Just— I’m going to go home, okay? Have fun with your girls.” _

_ “Steve—” _

_ The dream shifted. Steve was asleep on the couch, the radio still playing. It was dark out, and Bucky could taste the cigarettes on his breath, the liquor on his tongue, but still he leant down to scoop Steve into his arms. Steve shifted, puffing out a breath in his sleep, but stayed under, allowing Bucky to carry him to his bed. In the darkness, the radio crooned “Won’t you be my baby/ Won’t you be my one and only?” And all Bucky could think about, the only thing filling his head, was Steve.  _

_ The dream shifted.  _

_ Bucky hurt. Bucky hurt all over, something miserable, fierce. He’d never felt this bad in his entire life, and the worst part was, he didn't know how to fix it. There wasn’t even one specific spot the pain was radiating from, it was just everywhere.  _

_ Earlier that night, Bucky told Steve the truth. He just came out and said it, saying “Stevie, I’m queer and I think I’ve loved you all my life.” _

_ It didn’t go well.  _

_ It didn’t go well, and now Bucky was lying in the living room— their living room— with his back against the wall, all alone. It was dark out again. The radio was silent. His uniform felt stiff and unyielding, because he was still wearing it, because what did it matter anyway? Why peel it off when he’d just have to pour himself back into it the next morning? _

_ They’d gone to some sort of science convention earlier, like a fair, with giant tubes that glowed blue and a car that could almost fly. They were supposed to come back to their apartment together, but Bucky had to screw it all up.  _

_ “I’m queer, and I think I’ve loved you all my life.” _

_ And now, Stevie wasn’t coming home, never coming home, not until Bucky was gone and shipped out. He wouldn’t even have to wait long, ‘cause Bucky was leaving the next morning, bright and early. And then he’d never see Steve again. _

__ The Asset woke up, eyes wide, breathing harsh. Outside acceptable parameters—

The prisoner was in his little spot in the corner, heartbeat slow and regular. He was still asleep, then.

The Asset felt sick. 

At one point, the Asset was a person. He knew Steve, he was in love with Steve, and Steve… rejected him. They weren’t supposed to ever see each other again, the Asset was supposed to die and Steve was supposed to stay in Brooklyn. What happened? How did everything go wrong, who stripped away the human parts of the Asset like gears, turning him into a machine? And what happened to Steve, how did he get here, how was he alive, what if he—

For a second, the Asset was scared, because he thought  _ what if he remembers?  _ What if Steve remembered Winter’s confession, back when Winter had a human face and a human name. If Steve remembered, it would be disastrous, humiliating. Except… Steve didn’t remember anything. Not one bit.

Steve only knew what the Asset told him.

  
  


————————————

  
  


The next chance he got, Steve (metaphorically) cornered Winter and goaded him for information. “How do you know my name?”

Winter considered lying, but in the end, he didn't. “We used to know each other. I remember.”

Steve looked like he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe it. “Where? A different base?”

Winter’s heart hurt, just a little. “No. Before we lived in Hydra bases we were people. We lived in… the United States. New York.”

“I don’t know where that is,” Steve admitted. 

“It’s a city,” Winter explained, drawing on what knowledge he had. “With tall buildings everywhere, all surrounded by paved roads. And there were stores that you could go into and get things, and people lived in apartments, which are like cells, but bigger.”

“I can’t imagine,” Steve whispered, looking down. 

Winter’s heart hurt.

  
  


———————————

  
  


Their was a list in the Winter Soldier’s own personal manual, which described different actions and speech patterns that may suggest it was time for the Soldier to be brought back to the chair. Some examples include: referring to self as ‘I’; showing emotion in face or body; being overly expressive or aware of environment; showing curiosity; showing desire. That last one refers to the concept of ‘want’; an obedient soldier, a weapon, should not want. 

The Asset wanted. 

He stared at Steve whenever he could, hungry. He still had to escort Steve around the compound, bringing him to various labs and offices. When he could, he watched the way Steve moved, stared at his face, his body, and he wanted. He wanted to touch his golden hair, see if it was really as soft as it looks. He wanted to drag his metal fingers over his skin, feel the bones of his skull. He wanted to wrap his arms around the boy’s waist, feel him close, bodies pressed together. He wanted to know the lines of his palms, the spaces between his toes. 

Winter told Steve more stories. He told him about the world outside, away from Hydra. Some of the information he knew from missions, some he knew from memories, but he scraped what little bits of knowledge he had from the back of his mind, giving it all up to Steve. And when Steve listened... wow. His entire demeanor changed, face lighting up with interest, that brilliant, creative mind of his finally being stimulated. Sometimes, Winter wished he could see inside Steve’s head, know the way his gears shifted. He imagined Steve’s brain was set up like a series of canvases, and with every detail Steve added more color to a painting, making it fuller, more beautiful. The Asset had never understood the concept of beauty until he saw Steve smile.

(The Asset wanted with a drive that he had never, ever felt before.)

———————————

  
  


One night, the Asset felt the want inside him so deeply that he couldn’t say no.

He got back from his tasks of the day, finding Steve in his corner, as usual. Steve didn't really say hi, but he looked up when Winter was looming over him, eyes big. 

Winter scooped him up roughly, throwing him on the bed. Steve squeaked and rolled over, slapping at the Soldier in annoyance, but was helpless as Winter stuffed him under the covers. “It’s not cold,” Steve said in confusion. He didn't feel want like Winter did, didn't feel the constant prick of needles under his skin. “I can sleep in my corner, I don’t have—”

“Stay,” Winter growled. He was still standing, unsure what to do now that he’d come this far. He didn't know how much Steve would let him do. “Just— stay.”

He’s had enough of the dreams to know that the old Steve would probably object, try to fight it like he fought every act of kindness in his life, but this new Steve just bit his lip and nodded. He didn't object as Winter slithered in beside him, careful not to touch. 

“Tell me more about Brooklyn,” Steve requested, and Winter did.

  
  


———————————

  
  


The Asset marched Steve to one of the labs. He didn't know what Steve would be doing there, just knew that he wouldn’t be there to see. He had training then, and would be learning to use newly developed weapons in case it became relevant in upcoming missions. He had not had training in a while. Hydra did not have enough staff to meet all of the Soldier’s maintenance needs. 

They turned a corner, and Steve nearly ran into someone in a combat uniform, but Winter pulled him out of the way just in time with a firm grip to his elbow. Even after the danger had passed, Winter kept the grip on his elbow. It had been a very long time since he had touched someone in a way that didn’t hurt. 

They got to the room, and Steve was instructed to take his shirt off. The Asset left before he could hear any more orders. He understood that Steve was useful in multiple ways to Hydra, but he didn't like to think about it any more than that. 

The training room was all the way across the compound, taking a while to walk to. The Asset used the extra time to think. He had a particularly nice memory that came up that morning of him and Steve sitting on a fire escape, their legs dangling freely, not a care in the world. The light shined just so on Steve’s hair, enough to make it glow golden, his skin warm and full of color. He imagined this same Steve in that setting, his pale skin lighting up at the sight of sun again, his cracked lips stretching out in a beautiful, broken smile.

Back when he was a person, the Soldier had something of a crush on Steve. It seemed as though not much had changed. 

As he approached the training room, Winter took notice of the people around. He was on the side of the compound that was more about physical warfare than scientific, so instead of lab coats most of the agents milling around wore tac gear. Two in specific caught his eye; women, both wearing militaristic low buns and tac gear, one with red hair, the other with brown. They smiled at each other sweetly, feet too close together and voices too low for the conversation to be casual. Their eyes were lidded, smiles broad, and the Soldier listened in for long enough to realize they were talking about dinner plans. As he got closer, he took in the fact that they were wearing matching wedding rings. 

His chest started up with its increasingly-frequent pang, a heavy weight, like an iron tied to a balloon. He felt... jealous. He wanted that, wanted careless touches and meaningless talk of dinner. He imagined that was not far off from what he and Steve had, though he and Steve never kissed. But oh, how he wanted…

Training went well, and he proved himself to be exemplary with every new weapon they threw at him. He was allowed to leave, and made the walk back to the cell thinking more about the women. 

When he got to the cell, however, his mind drained of anything else but  _ fear.  _ Because Steve was laid sprawled on the floor in a puddle of blood, and Winter— Winter—

Winter heard a heartbeat. That was good. Steve was not dead.

_ Yet.  _

Winter opened the cell door and closed it quickly behind him, coming to kneel by the boy’s side. Steve heard him and startled, trying to rise to his knees but making a noise in pain and slipping back down. The Soldier caught him by the elbow to keep him from face-planting, assessing the damage. The boy was groaning, eyes unfocused, and he had a large gash across his cheek. His knees were bleeding too, and one elbow, and his breath was so shaky Winter feared a broken rib. But that was it. That was it. 

Winter dragged him over to the wall, forcing him to lean against it even as the boy protested. Winter got paper towels to staunch the blood, making the boy hold pressure on his knees while he held pressure against his face. It wouldn’t be enough— the boy needed bandages, perhaps stitches. And— and disinfectant. He could get an infection, and then he would die for sure. 

He was not allowed to die. No. He couldn’t. Winter forbade it. 

So Winter left, his heart clenching when the boy made a horrible sound of abandonment. The boy was more animal-like when he was in a pain, a mewling kitten left by it’s mother, except in this case Steve was the kitten and the mother that had left him was the entire world. He had been abandoned by God, tossed out of grace, and now he lived off of scraps of memories that weren’t even his. 

Winter retrieved medical supplies, his head hurting immensely as the programming faught against him. He should not steal from Hydra— but Pierce said he didn’t think Steve deserved to die, Pierce  _ said that,  _ so really, isn’t this just Winter following orders? The prisoner was not to die. The prisoner was not to die. 

(Winter would burn the compound to the ground if the prisoner died.)

He came back to the cell to find Steve in the same spot, dried tear-streaks on his cheeks. He moaned in pain when he sees Winter, and pulled his knees closer to his chest. He still saw Winter as a threat. That was an oversight that Winter had ignored for far too long. 

Winter knelt beside him and started tending to his wounds, but this time Steve faught back more. “Don’t… don’t touch me,” he growled, voice mean, like a kitten with gashes all over it. He’d hiss if he could. “Leave me alone, don’t— don’t touch me! You don’t have the right— you don’t know me—”

“I know you,” Winter swore, and if there was a bit of a Brooklyn accent in his voice, then he ignored it. He was too busy bandaging, tending to the broken rabbit before him. 

“You knew me,” Steve repeated. Past tense. “What were we?”

Winter thought of longing glances, of one-sided affected. A friendship that never turned into anything more. “Lovers.” His throat felt hot, sticky. “We were lovers.”

“Lovers?” Steve repeated, eyes big and glassy. “I’ve never had a lover.”

“Yes, you have, I was your lover. You don’t remember because they fried your brain.”

“They fried my brain,” Steve repeated. The blood from his cheek had dripped down his chin, and Winter hastened to clean it off. “Why?”

It was a question Winter didn't know how to answer, so he didn't. Why  _ did  _ they fry Steve’s brain? What was stored in there that they had to get out?

He continued tending to Steve’s wounds, until even the gash on his cheek was patched up. Then he hauled him upwards, and deposited him on the bed, much more gently than he usually did. Steve didn't fight it, and he didn't fight it when Winter pushed his shirt up to examine his ribs. They weren’t broken, as Winter had feared, there were just a few surface bruises. His hitching breath was likely caused by his sobs— internal injuries, not external. Winter didn't know how to fix those. 

“What happened,” he murmured, climbing in beside Steve, making him comfortable. “Who did this?”

Steve gave him a long, empty stare. His eyes seemed very dull. They were never so dull in the memories. “Guards.”

The Soldier frowned. “Did they have proper authorization?”

“I… I think so. They can do whatever they want to me, there’s no rules.”

Winter pursed his lips. He didn’t have the authority to question Hydra, but… he was… he was…

He was upset. He doubted whether his organization had made the correct decision. 

(He needed to go to the chair.)

“I’ll be fine,” Steve swore. “Just a few cuts anyways. I’ve been hurt before.”

(He wouldn’t go to the chair.)

“You have,” Winter agreed. “You will.”

Steve rolled more onto his side, staring at Winter’s face in a way that no one had ever looked at him before. His eyebrows pulled in, confused, but he licked his lips, making them glisten with moisture. “We were… lovers?”

“We were married,” the Soldier said, thinking of the women from before. “For years.”

“I don’t know what ‘married’ is.”

“It’s where you love each other, and sign a contract about it,” Winter explained. “The contract commits two people together for life.”

“For life,” Steve repeated. 

“Yes. That's what we were. We signed a contract. Because we loved each other."

“Loved each other,” Steve repeated. Perhaps Winter should have been more careful in his assessment for a concussion. “Why did we love each other? Why did— why—”

“We kept each other safe,” Winter said, head feeling warm like molasses. “That’s what love is. Safety. In— another person.”

Steve tucked his chin to his chest, no longer looking at Winter. He was so, so small. “I don’t remember ever feeling safe.”

The Asset felt a brand new emotion— despair. The boy kept on making him feel things, and the Asset wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all. Hydra said that he didn’t need feelings, that a weapon was only functional as long as it was focused, and feelings were a distraction. This felt like a distraction— but it didn’t feel bad. 

Hydra had taken his feelings from him, the Soldier realized. Hydra had taken his feelings, and Steve’s memories. What else had they taken? What else was there, what other sensations had he been removed from? What more to life was he missing out on, because Hydra didn’t think he needed it?

What more was out there, just waiting to be found?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has 19 subscriptions and 1 comment. Let’s see if we can even out that ratio a bit :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think! I'm working on finishing this story over the next few days, so any and all encouragement will be greatly appreciated. And WhenInDoubtSleep, I'm super excited to hear what you think, I hope you're liking it so far!
> 
> Next update coming soon...


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